


Keeping up Appearances

by WickedScribbles



Series: Against Fate's Design [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale can sense emotions, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Dry Humping, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Gentleness, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Angst, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Switch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Switch Crowley (Good Omens), Switching, They share a brain cell, They're both just very soft okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedScribbles/pseuds/WickedScribbles
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley must switch forms to fool their respective Head Offices after Armageddon fails to take off-otherwise, they could both face death (for good). But what do they do with those bodies in the hours before they're snatched away to Heaven and Hell? Naughtiness ensues, and confessions are made. Eventual Ineffable Husbands, a spot of angst, but mostly love and lemon.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Against Fate's Design [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724335
Comments: 38
Kudos: 254





	1. Wandering Hands

For Heaven’s sake, did Crowley really need to wear his trousers this _tight?_

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, hooking one too-thin finger in a belt loop of said leather garments. In fact, everything on him was suddenly much too thin. Which was why he wasn’t sure why Crowley insisted on trousers that hugged his already rangy frame so closely--unless it was a built-in temptation…

It certainly worked on _him_. He sighed, but it turned to a low growl in the wrong throat. He was very glad that Crowley--now disguised in his own body--had smartly insisted that they head back to their own residences as soon as possible, to avoid arousing any more suspicion, thankful for the privacy of Crowley’s apartment, even if it was gloomy as all get-out. He wondered what his counterpart was up to, and if he was having this much trouble. 

Earlier at the Tadfield Air Base, as Agnes Nutter’s prophecy had fluttered to him on that destiny-laden breeze, Aziraphale immediately knew what they had to do. Their respective Head Offices wouldn’t just forget them after Armageddon had been averted. In fact, they would be after their heads as soon as they could. This was no occasion for a slap on the wrist, or a few centuries of celestial probation. No, this kind of betrayal surely meant death for them. And after all this, Aziraphale thought with gritted teeth, he was _not_ going down in a blaze of hellfire. 

What followed was their own little Great Plan. Going off the words of the clever human Agnes Nutter, whispering together with heads bent close in a back alley in Tadfield, Crowley and Aziraphale came to an agreement. They would take on the appearance of the other, survive the punishment that was meant for the other, and continue living their lives; on their own side. The greatest switcheroo that Heaven or Hell had ever seen. 

Oh, it had filled him with excitement. And fear, so much fear. Could they actually pull it off? Failing meant that this had all been for nothing. In a way, this was like an Armageddon meant just for them. But if they succeeded… Then they were so close to a life together, unbothered, unrestricted. It made his silly old heart flutter in a way that only happened when Crowley was concerned. Not that Aziraphale was sure he suspected. Six thousand years, and he had never acted on what he’d felt for the demon. 

When had he first even known that it was love? Certainly the attraction had always been there… It was the Ark. Had to have been. Something about seeing a demon showing concern over the Creatures of the Earth had given him pause. After their meeting, Aziraphale hadn’t seen Crowley for several centuries, but never stopped puzzling over their exchange there. Demons simply weren’t supposed to feel _empathy_ , or _compassion_. They were cold, unfeeling, the natural enemy. But he’d been concerned, and it was genuine, and he was beautiful. Surely he did not belong in Hell. He was a misfit. 

Just like Aziraphale himself. Loving the Earth too much, indulging in the pleasures of the simple _humans_. What could he say? He adored it here. The food, the books, the cultures, the music, the dances, the creatures. They were all beautiful and deserving of love. He knew how the other angels regarded him. It had stopped bothering him at least three millennia ago. His pleasures were nothing to be ashamed of. And besides, Crowley never judged. 

But would he judge Aziraphale for the deep, aching love he harbored for the demon? That was the one thing he’d never shared with his best and only friend. Aziraphale wasn’t positive, but in the softest place in his heart, he feared that a love confession would send the demon for the hills. And he could _not_ lose Crowley. Even if it meant keeping his desire a secret for the rest of their ethereal lives. Just being his companion, his friend, would suffice, if it meant that they could be together. 

All of this thought on love, death, and uncertainty had his heart thumping a little too fast for his liking. Aziraphale instinctively looked around the flat for a kitchen nook, craving a cup of tea, but there was nothing like it in sight. Rolling his eyes and muttering something about “Stupid lizard” under his breath, he miracled a cup of chamomile tea into existence, at the perfect temperature. Gripping the cup in his new-to-him hands, Aziraphale marveled at the size of the hands. The long, spindly fingers. Each knuckle stood out. Fascinated as a child, Aziraphale flexed Crowley’s hand, just to watch. The tea wobbled in its cup, and Aziraphale glanced at his own reflection. 

Sunglasses, though he didn’t actually need them. Reddish hair swept up in a peak. A mouth mostly used for snarling or frowning. (Aziraphale was proud that he could make that mouth smile, smirk, and on rare occasions, laugh.) A stronger jaw than Aziraphale had ever had, even when his body had been brand new. 

After thinking for a moment, Aziraphale took the glasses off, revealing the bright yellow eyes underneath. Even though he knew that it was him inside the body, behind the eyes, his pulse quickened. A little shiver ran through him, and Aziraphale instinctively shut down the thoughts that pleaded to enter his mind and run their course. 

Maybe it was something to do with the form he was in, or the newfound relief that came with being free of the threat of Armageddon. Maybe it was simply the fact that Aziraphale was tired of centuries and centuries of pretending that his human body didn’t have needs. 

But most likely, it was the very apparent fact that Crowley’s body had produced an erection. 

It took Aziraphale a moment to place the feeling of what had happened in the too-tight trousers; the human race was still travelling exclusively in horse-drawn carriage the last time he had produced a penis for himself. Seemingly of its own mind, his left hand snaked down to grasp it--and he squeaked at the lightning bolt of pleasure that shot from Crowley’s navel and down through the penis itself. 

Distractedly, Aziraphale placed the teacup on a sheer black counter. Some deep, long ignored _urgent_ voice in his mind was telling him that this was a rare opportunity. One that would most likely never present itself again. _Bedroom. He has to have a bedroom, where--?_ The disconnected string of thoughts--needs, really, were telling him that this was his one strange, not-really-but-sort-of chance to be intimate with Crowley. _Fuck_ shame. Crowley would never know. Heaven had cast him out. Just like a night out at one of his favorite eateries, Aziraphale was indulging. Although, it had never made him feel quite like this. 

Down a hallway that seemed to be miracled to be too long and confusing for the size of the building, Aziraphale found the bedroom. The bed was a California king, far too large for just the skinny little demon himself. The sheets were black silk, and mounted above the frame was, no, it couldn’t be--a _full-sized mirror._

Aziraphale was panting in Crowley’s voice, rough and soft all at once. His dick was making a wet spot in the trousers, which were _squeezing_ him now. The hand that had moved so slowly to the unfamiliar appendage now couldn’t seem to leave it alone, palming and rubbing through the leather. Pleasure was pooling in Aziraphale now, but he knew that there could be so, so much more to this. Impatiently unbuttoning the trousers, he slithered out of them, astonished to see Crowley’s bare legs for the first time. That took a backseat to the straining erection _begging_ to be freed from his pants, however, and in a running leap, Aziraphale landed on the luxurious bed. 

Spread on his back, Aziraphale was overwhelmed with his form’s beauty. Crowley’s hair was tousled, cheeks pink, slitted pupils blown wide. He had dropped the glasses somewhere, but that was the last thing on his mind. Focused entirely on his reflection, Aziraphale removed the socks, the blazer, the button-down shirt, the loose grey tie, and finally, the boxers. Crowley’s erection sprang free as if relieved, dripping and red and forbidden in its intoxicating sex appeal. 

Naked on the silk sheets, Aziraphale watched Crowley’s nipples turn hard and pert. One of them was pierced with a silver ring. Though he was overwhelmed with the sensation of this penis, the _view_ , he wanted to drag it out a little, drink all the parts of Crowley in that he had never seen before. He let his hands wander all over, pretending that he was himself, in his own body, worshipping every inch. The pale skin, the arms, stomach with a thin trail of red hair. Skinny legs that seemed to have never seen the sun. Aziraphale wanted them cinched around his waist. As if to bring him to the matter at hand, his dick twitched impatiently. Oh, God, oh _Satan_ , what he’d say to Crowley if they were actually together; the secret fantasies all laid bare. 

It then occurred to Aziraphale that he could speak in Crowley’s voice, and his resolve for patience _shattered_. 

Aziraphale grasped the penis in Crowley’s right hand and jerked, letting out a breathy moan that was all the sweeter for being Crowley’s. That voice that demanded his sense of right and wrong was tiny now, and he squashed it, letting instinct and lust consume him. 

“Angel,” he tried, the word coming out in a somewhat hoarse whisper. Pleasure shot up his spine like a slap, and he increased his movements. Crowley was so wet with pre-cum that he had to squeeze for that extra bit of delicious friction. 

It had only been moments, but Aziraphale felt orgasm growing near. Crowley’s legs began to tremble--he was torn between wanting to slow down and never stop. “Angel, oh _SSSatan,_ you feel so good, don’t _ssstop, I’m--”_ He was gasping for breath now, hips jerking into every thrust. His eyes were fixated on Crowley’s gaze in the overhead mirror, breathless, forked tongue slipping in and out as his lungs worked for _something, anything._

The orgasm was building at the base of his dick, and Aziraphale had never known such a pleasure. Tears were pricking the corners of Crowley’s eyes. 

“Aziraphale, oh, _oh, oh! I’m right there! Yes, just like that! YES!_ I’m coming, I’m coming--” 

With a strangled scream, Aziraphale came, strings of ejaculate coating Crowley’s naked body from stomach to throat. He wasn’t even aware that he’d bitten down on Crowley’s knuckle until the orgasm had ended, dull pain from the broken skin alerting him to it. 

“Such a mess,” he murmured to himself once he’d calmed down, moments later. He didn’t regret a single second of it. Though he supposed he should pop into a bath to appear decent for the task ahead. If Crowley even had a bathroom in this bizarre excuse for a living space. 

With a long, contented, sigh, Aziraphale rolled himself into a sitting position--and that’s when he noticed it. The tattoo. How had he not seen a tattoo? On the right ankle, a simple thing. One beautifully etched white feather, beneath which were scrawled the words “IN PERPETUUM ET UNUM DIEM”. He blinked at it like a fool, stared for what felt like days. 

Aziraphale bit his lip, felt the tears welling in his eyes, fought them, and lost.


	2. The Devil's Plaything

_Author's Note: Y'all. "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen was MADE for this pairing. (it's the song in this chapter.) Also, "Love of My Life", which I regret not having at my wedding now. Hah. Happy reading, and put your seatbelts on! More chapters to come, dearests._

“Of course. Bloody saint.” Crowley hissed in his angel’s voice, and it came out half-hearted. The tongue wasn’t forked enough, the mouth not as capable of malice. 

For an angel that lived about as humanly as a supernatural creature could, Aziraphale was missing certain... _key components_. All of this mundane comfort--the little cozy flat above the bookshop, fully furnished with everything a human would need, anyone breaking in would never suspect an angel lived here--and yet, his _body_ was lacking something that Crowley sorely wished it wasn’t. 

Crowley would have defended himself to the last breath (metaphorically) had anyone accused him of miracling straight into Aziraphale’s flat to have a wank in his body. Well, _yeah,_ it was a high priority. Top three. God, he had wanted the angel for _so_ long. It felt like a curse, a cross to bear, a chronic illness, though his body wasn’t capable of having one. Six thousand years of lust could make you quite insane. Had it been anyone else, Crowley would have tempted them long ago. Yes, there had been others; humans, assignments, throw-aways, frankly. But _noooo_. He had to _fall for_ Angel. The irony was almost unbearable. 

Mostly, he tried not to think about it. It hurt less that way. There were tiny moments, little flashes here and there scattered through the centuries, where he thought maybe his angel could return his feelings--but Crowley would soon convince himself that it was just Aziraphale’s loving nature, his attitude towards all things, their friendship...anything else. He didn’t deserve the love of an angel. It wasn’t even possible--and besides, their friendship was improbable enough. 

With another little growl that was almost comical in Aziraphale’s voice, Crowley let himself into the bookshop, vehemently flipping the sign to CLOSED. Aziraphale would be thrilled to bits to see that it had magically repaired itself after the events of Armageddon, but for now, Crowley kept it to himself. He had never been in here alone, and had some snooping to do. Entirely good-natured snooping, of course, for the sake of getting into character. 

The first thing that hit him, even in the wrong body with dulled senses, was the scent of Aziraphale _everywhere_. The smell of old books, with their dusty covers and leather binding, vanilla, and the subtlest touch of something that had taken Crowley approximately eighty-six years to identify: rose oil. Thank Satan that there was no cock currently attached to this man. Crowley couldn’t be held accountable for what he would’ve done, right there on the plush carpet of the bookshop, with the curtains wide open. 

Instead, Crowley located the staircase to Aziraphale’s flat, taking the steps two at a time (it left him rather out of breath). The space could have belonged to any stuffy, middle-aged fellow with a kink for books, really. Crowley walked slowly through the room, as if Aziraphale would pop out at any moment and scold him for this invasion of his privacy. The kitchen was stocked with a variety of baked goods, and more mugs than Crowley was certain anyone would ever need. He smirked fondly, rifling in the cabinets with his too-small hands to peruse the collection of teas, cocoas, and coffees.  
There was a queen-sized bed squashed in the far corner, adorned with a fluffy duvet and too many pillows. Crowley wouldn’t say the space was cramped, but...comfortable. Too many books up here, just like there were below. A dining table, a typewriter, a gramophone, and oddly, a rather new-looking CD player that stood out like a sore thumb. What a soft angel, lost in his human comforts. Only one other room was attached, the door small enough to belong to a closet, and Crowley’s nosiness led him there straight away. 

It was a bathroom. Small, dominated mostly by an ornate, claw-footed tub. _Ach. Probably_ had _been a closet at some point, then._ He could just see Aziraphale sighing in a bubble bath at the end of a long day. He was about to leave when he thought he saw something move within--Crowley nearly jumped before he recognized it as “his” reflection, a small gasp coming from Aziraphale’s throat. _Adorable,_ was his instinctual thought. The duck-fluff hair was kept just so, and Crowley reached up to muss it. God, it was as soft as it looked. His face was blushing, the barest tinge of pink across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. The eyes were as wide and as hazel as ever, as innocent as a child’s. They made Crowley want to commit unspeakable atrocities. Aziraphale’s mouth...was so _dainty._ Plush lips that looked as if they belonged on a woman, though he was more beautiful than any woman God had ever created. 

He lost track of how long he stood there, admiring Aziraphale’s body. All he knew was that he had slowly shed layer after unnecessary layer of garment, keeping fleeting eye contact with the angel in the mirror all the while. Goosebumps had risen on the full arms, and Crowley was astonished to see that golden freckles adorned Aziraphale’s shoulders. There was a tiny mole on his collarbone. _Fuck all of these..clothes. Why doesn’t he just flounce around in swim trunks…?_ Crowley was drunk on all of this Divine beauty, overstimulated by it. The almost white fuzz of Aziraphale’s body hair was soft, nearly everywhere, and enough to make Crowley sweat, though the room wasn’t warm. 

Crowley had stripped down to Aziraphale’s briefs before he remembered that there were no genitals beneath. What a _hassle_. And a puzzle. Living such a human life, and not bothering with the most animal part of it? It simply wouldn’t do. And perhaps, when Crowley was done, he’d leave it--wait and see how long it took Aziraphale to notice the little _addition_ he’d added. Oh, what a downright _sinful_ thought. 

Crowley bit the lip that wasn’t his, wriggled Aziraphale’s briefs down ‘round his ankles, and got to work. 

Granted, it had been some millennia since Crowley had made his own. A Google search was made, just in case. Didn’t want anything put on inside out. It struck him, as he worked, that he had done far more creating lately than destroying. What a lousy demon he had turned out to be, in the end. Miracles felt as simple as temptations, the magic flowing like water. Not that he’d let anyone know just how easy it all came to him, just how stuck in the middle of right and wrong he truly felt. And _this_ , crafting this as God Herself had crafted the first two humans from the clay of the Earth itself, felt like the most Divine art of all. 

When the whole process was done, Crowley was quite smug; it was perfect for Aziraphale’s body. If anyone else was looking (the hypothetical alone could make Crowley breathe fire), they would never suspect that it hadn’t been there moments before. _Perfect_. Crowley held it in one of Aziraphale’s hands lightly, almost reverently, shaky from the Effort it had taken. He felt it come to life from the smallest of touches, stiffening for the first time, for _Crowley_ , though technically he wasn’t really here, he was Aziraphale--or--well, it was all kind of a muddle.

He really needed to sit down for a moment. The rush of Aziraphale’s naked body, the magic he’d just spent, was making him feel a bit pallid. Sporting a half-interested boner and not a spot of clothing anywhere, Crowley made his way to Aziraphale’s little nest of a bed. 

And what a nest it was--like collapsing in a pile of feathers. Crowley let out a small, involuntary groan as the smell of his angel enveloped him, letting him know just how much time Aziraphale spent sleeping or at least curled up here. Instinctively, Crowley rolled over on his stomach to bury his face into the covers, to flick his tongue and fill his mouth with the _taste_ \--and was met with a shock of friction up the angel’s newest appendage. He gasped at the unexpected sensation, loving that it came in Aziraphale’s voice. Swallowing back any creeping shame, Crowley positioned himself atop one of the ruffled silk pillows adorning the bed, and began to fuck it. 

The sights were to die for, but the sensations were what Crowley was sold on. The silk sliding so smoothly against Aziraphale’s dick, a sleek tease that was just _barely_ enough, coupled with the view of the angel’s body thrusting into the bed had him leaking all over the sheets. Those soft, squeezable thighs were working overtime, jiggling with every movement--and the ass in time with that. Crowley was shuddering, incoherent, greedy for _so_ much more than this. _Screw_ insecurities, boundaries, the sexual tension--if he had one more miracle left in him, he would’ve snapped himself straight to where Aziraphale was in his body, looking just as he was. 

Finally unable to take the tease of the silk on the underside of Aziraphale’s dick and nothing more, Crowley grasped the steel-solid thing in his hand and jerked it frantically. The feeling of orgasm coming upon him was imminent--seconds away and as white-hot as a lightning strike. 

_“Oh, fffuck. Oh, my God. Zira, Zira--!”_

Even completely alone, on the cusp of coming, slipping the dumb little nickname made Crowley’s ears burn. It did not, however, stop the orgasm ripping through him just two breaths after, the nickname a mantra on his lips, hips bucking wildly into air. Aziraphale’s nails dug little crescent moons into those delicious thighs, riding out the wave to its finish. 

Two traits that are commonly associated with demons are greed and lust. Crowley would admit, after some prodding, that he was not the perfect demon and did not share _all_ of their desirable traits. That being said--he was far from done. The human refractory period was something he had heard of, but dismissed as nonsense soon after. What was the point, really, if your body was capable of almost anything? 

Crowley propped himself up on the pillows, naked, flush and _satisfied_ with himself, content to stay here for a moment and lounge in the mess he’d made of this heavenly body. Having mustered most of his magical energy once again, he summoned a glass of Chateau Margaux, probably snatched right from some spluttering Senator’s hand. The thought made him grin as he sipped. He felt like a king, here in this stuffy little flat, sticky from sex with the smell of Aziraphale everywhere. The only thing missing was, well, Aziraphale himself. Not that that would ever be a possibility. Nor would this _ever_ happen again. One beautiful day, and a lifetime of longing and remembering to follow. 

The wine had bittered in Crowley’s mouth. He downed the rest of it in a single gulp like a punishment, and the alcohol made his head buzz pleasantly. _If this is the first and last time,_ he surmised as only Crowley could, _then I better fucking enjoy it._

Right. No sense in doing it proper without a bit of music. On a whim (and perhaps because of his growing fondness for modern music), Crowley chose the CD player over the gramophone. This is a shame, because otherwise he might have gotten his second round of personal enjoyment, after all. 

Instead, the radio sprung to life at his command, and Freddie Mercury’s voice poured forth. 

_\--Dining at the Ritz, we'll meet at nine precisely  
(One two three four five six seven eight nine o' clock)  
I will pay the bill, you taste the wine  
Driving back in style, in my saloon will do quite nicely  
Just take me back to yours that will be fine (come on and get it)--_

What. The. Fuck? Crowley was so surprised that the CD player shut up of its own accord, seemingly scared into silence. If he had been in the proper body, he might have caught fire. Had Mr. Orchestral Symphony Choir really been listening to classic rock for the past few decades, without his knowledge? Or...did this have something to do with him? Did he dare to dream it could mean what he wanted?

Shaking, he walked over to where the offending device was half-buried in a stack of historical fiction. Books falling to his feet like bodies, Crowley got a good look at the disc that had come to a placid stop in the radio’s port. It was a ripped disc, the cover blank except for a single word: his own name, written in Aziraphale's curling, golden script. Crowley’s hand flew to his mouth, heart sinking and flying all at once. Perhaps Heaven was still on his side.


	3. Echoes of Mercy

Something had changed. Aziraphale might not have been on anyone’s roster of best angels, but he was incredibly keen to notice detail; a book misplaced, a miniscule shift in the city’s balance of good and evil, but most particularly if something had changed with Crowley. He also knew that Crowley could be touchy--and now wasn’t the time to be bringing up possibly minor topics when their fates were on the line. They each had to perform impeccably, or all of this would have been for naught. 

So when Crowley, wearing Aziraphale’s corporation, strode across the path to their designated meeting place, Aziraphale said nothing of the bow-tie upside down, his own hair ruffled, or the slightly panicked look in his eye. Just what exactly had he been up to while they had been apart? Not that Aziraphale was one to point fingers just now. After what he’d done in Crowley’s bed, what he’d discovered… Adjusting Crowley’s sunglasses and pushing his hands deep into the jacket pockets, Aziraphale cast it far from his mind. They had work to do. 

And in the end, it _did_ work. Though watching Crowley being dragged away from him in bondage (albeit in his own body) sent ripples of helpless fear through him, and some moronic demon left quite a lump on Crowley’s temple in his own abduction, it had fooled both of their Sides. Aziraphale had to confess he’d perhaps gotten a little carried away, acting as Crowley. It had all been a little _too_ fun, seeing the lesser demons (not to mention the uppity Michael) shriek and cower as he splashed about in the holy water, completely unphased by it all. He could only imagine the fun Crowley was having Up There. 

He’d strode confidently back up to the Earth’s surface, the saunter in Crowley’s walk a little more pronounced. Crowley had beaten him to their spot on the bench, Aziraphale’s body flung carelessly across it. He wasn’t sure whether to roll his eyes or smile; that was definitely his demon. Sitting primly beside him, Aziraphale instinctively glanced to see if they were being watched. 

“Anybody looking?” 

Crowley cast his eyes over his shoulder, and Aziraphale did the same on his side. 

“Nope. Nobody.”  
“Swap back, then.” 

With a brief clasp of hands and a feeling that could be described as a tingling-zap, they were themselves again--and thank Someone for that. Aziraphale had been dying in those flesh-tight trousers. Satisfied to be back where he belonged, he fidgeted with his bowtie, determined to right it when Crowley wasn’t looking. 

“A tartan collar? Really?” Crowley was peering at him over the tops of his sunglasses with an expression that said he had been every bit as uncomfortable as Aziraphale. 

“Tartan is stylish,” Aziraphale said defensively. He almost retorted with something about his own experience, but decided to keep it to himself. Instead, he excitedly spilled how easily Hell had fallen for his ruse--the rubber duck had been priceless, and had made Crowley laugh just as he knew it would. 

They were _safe_. All of the time that he thought would be snatched away from them was suddenly back, stretched before them like an infinite path that they could travel together. 

Crowley stopped laughing, and sighed. “They’ll leave us alone for a bit. If you ask me, both sides are going to use this as breathing space before the big one.”

“I thought that _was_ the big one?” Aziraphale bit the corner of his lip, trying not to let this moment be spoiled with worry. 

“Nah. For my money, the really big one is all of us against all of them.” Crowley stared ahead, at the ducks gliding their way through the water. Perhaps he didn’t want to think about it either. 

“What, Heaven and Hell against humanity?” 

“Right. Time to leave the garden,” Crowley interjected, as if he hadn’t heard Aziraphale’s inquiry. He turned back to the angel, a smirk bringing up the corner of his mouth. “Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?” 

_Lunch._ It was their way of not saying goodbye, not yet. Thinking of the white feather on Crowley’s ankle, of _In Perpetuum Et Unum Diem_ and the secrets of Crowley’s body, Aziraphale beamed at him and replied, “Temptation accomplished. I believe a table for two at the Ritz has _miraculously_ become free. Shall we?” 

The celebratory mood seemed to be contagious; Crowley stood and did a silly little bow, and together they made their way to Aziraphale’s favorite eatery in all of London. 

But as they walked, he could sense that something was _still_ off with Crowley, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he could let it go--not now that they were free to do as they pleased. Perhaps it was more easily mentioned over a meal; and he _was_ famished after all of the near-death experiences they’d had in the past few days. Or it might have been his way of being a coward--putting off an uncomfortable conversation for another time, decades if possible. 

A bit of his anxiety melted as they approached the backlit, distinguished-looking hotel front. Dining here was one of his absolute favorite experiences, and the staff tended to dote on him (and those who’d served him had received several tiny miracles for themselves in return). Even the couple for whom the table had originally belonged had had a miracle sent their way, as Aziraphale was in particularly good spirits tonight; they were expecting their firstborn. 

One of his favorite waiters, Liam, led them to their table. They sprang for the 1985 reserve, because why the Heaven not? Money was no object, and they agreed it had been a rather good year. For Aziraphale the highlight had been the rising popularity of tasseled slip-on shoes, and for Crowley it was New Coke, which caused loathing amongst millions (his favorite kind). As the conversation devolved into which of the 20th century’s decades had been the best--poor Liam probably didn’t know what to think as he served the first course--they toasted the world, each other, this night. Aziraphale drank his champagne a little more quickly than he normally would, unnerved with the heady mix of triumph and _panic_ that was painting itself thicker and thicker in the air. 

There was no more ignoring this. Whatever was bothering Crowley was coming off of him in waves, though his expression was so ordinary that no one would suspect a thing if they didn’t know him. Aziraphale did have a tendency to pick up on emotions if he was actively trying--though mostly he _didn’t_. In a city as big as London, leaving yourself wide open to every human’s emotion was just asking to be discorporated off the face of the planet from overstimulation. The one feeling that came to him, whether he asked for it or not, was love. It floated on the breeze from couples in the park, flew in pulses from an old man looking at his wife, shivered and hiccupped from a little boy playing with his dog. It was everywhere, and he was glad for it. 

So how powerful was this anxiety of Crowley’s that it was forcing through Aziraphale’s carefully placed barrier of non-feeling? 

Nonchalantly, spearing a bite of his crepes suzette, Aziraphale let himself relax and _reached_ for the feeling. 

It was a mistake. The anxiety was all-encompassing; Aziraphale _reared_ from it like he’d been struck across the face. This was not a wave, nor a pulse. The feeling of dread was a needle, dark as night and aimed directly at all of one’s insecurities, lancing and drawing back and stabbing again--

“Angel?” Aziraphale was vaguely aware that Crowley was waving his hand back and forth in front of his face. 

Aziraphale pulled back from it like pulling himself out of high tide with no bodily knowledge of how to swim; slowly, and feeling the whole time as if he might die. The crepes suzette sat unfinished on his plate, and Crowley was looking from it to him as if some great atrocity had been committed by it still being there. 

“ _What,_ ” Aziraphale said hoarsely, his throat parched though the champagne had just touched it, “what the fuck is going _on,_ Crowley?” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, mild concern placed perfectly on his face--the _actor_. In his own corporation he was a nearly flawless bluff. “I’d ask you the same thing. What, are the crepes bad? You’ve hardly touched them--no one’s gonna be offended if we send them back, y’know--”

“It’s _not_ the bloody crepes.” Aziraphale dropped his fork and glared at Crowley (or as best he could through the sunglasses). “What’s going on with you? You--you haven’t been right all day and I--I’m just worried that something happened when we were swapped out--” 

“Angel, _tell_ me that you didn’t do that sopping _feelings_ thing,” Crowley spat. His face had turned a rather unpleasant color that Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to interpret, and he wasn’t about to reach out and feel the demon’s way again anytime soon. 

“It wasn’t my fault! I wasn’t even trying and I felt it. And oh, Crowley. It’s _awful._ ” Aziraphale shuddered just at the fresh memory of the sensation, wishing he could reach out again and fix it--but afraid Crowley wouldn’t allow it. 

The demon in question inhaled sharply through his nose and looked away, downing the rest of his champagne in a painful swallow. “It isn’t anything, Aziraphale.” The lack of his pet name struck Aziraphale. He longed to be _angel_ again, for the air between them to be normal. “It was just a weird day. End of the world? Does it ring a bell?” 

“You’re lying.” Aziraphale’s chest felt too tight. Crowley’s sense of unease was inside him now, inhabiting him in every corner and crevice, though he hadn’t a clue why. He was frustrated that this had all spiralled so quickly. “ _Crowley._ Please.” Stubbornly, Crowley was still turned away, almost as if he hadn’t heard. 

Aziraphale considered himself a patient person, an understanding person. But it had nearly run dry. He snapped his fingers under the table, and Crowley’s glasses disappeared from his face. To his credit, Crowley didn’t react beyond narrowing his yellow eyes slightly, almost as if to adjust to the light. Several tense minutes passed, and a waiter passing their table tripped and spilled a whole tray of drinks (Crowley later claimed that that had not been his fault, but he was in fact relieving tension). 

After what felt like hours, Crowley finally spoke. “ _The Great Pretender,_ ” he simply said. 

Aziraphale stared. What on this green planet was he on about--?  
Crowley wasn’t finished. 

“ _I Was Born to Love You. You’re My Best Friend. Love of My Life._ ” Crowley paused again, and he seemed to be sucking in a supernatural amount of air. “ _Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy._ ” 

If it were possible for Aziraphale to freeze and explode like an ice sculpture dropped on the spot, he would have done it right there and then. These were song titles he was listing off. Songs that he, Aziraphale, had placed on a compact disc on one very, very lonely night in the nineties. The compact disc player had been half-hidden in his flat ever since, sometimes played on repeat when they went great stretches without seeing each other. The voice reminded him so much of rides in the Bentley, of the smell of Crowley--spice and smoke and fresh-cut grass. What a very _stupid_ thing to leave lying around when he knew Crowley would be there. He’d _written Crowley’s name_ on the thing, for fuck’s sake...

“So. What’s it mean?” Crowley had posed the question, but still wasn’t looking at him. 

Aziraphale swallowed, trying to remember when in the last six thousand years he’d felt this nervous. “Just...er. Trying to get into some new music?” He was a terrible liar. He knew it. Crowley knew it. It hung in the air between them like a spiderweb. 

Crowley finally swiveled to face him, expression unreadable. “ _Really._ ” 

The second course had arrived by now, going ignored. Aziraphale thought again of Crowley’s ankle, the image marked there, the Latin, what he’d done in the California King--but couldn’t say it. He simply _couldn’t_. Crowley would know everything if he tried to make it seem innocent when it wasn’t. He felt as if he might be sick. This was it; The Moment. They had just dodged the end of the world, death, and now their friendship was falling apart because of his stupidity. 

“No,” Aziraphale whispered. 

“Then what is it?” Crowley didn’t seem angry, or appalled. His tone remained the same, but this time the roles were reversed--Aziraphale couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. The Ritz was all at once far too small; a container, a box. He was blinking back tears, gulping them down, doing anything not to cry here. 

“I--it’s just--sometimes--we just don’t see each other for a while--and--I get lonely--” was the best he could manage. It was the truth, after all. A few tears escaped down Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he scrubbed them away quickly. He saw Crowley’s face soften out of the corner of his eye. It was obviously pity for the poor, love-struck angel whom he couldn’t love back. 

To hell with it. It couldn’t get any worse than this, could it? 

“Why...do you have that tattoo?” 

The slitted pupils in Crowley’s eyes went as narrow as they possibly could. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ” 

Crowley’s energy shifted _immensely,_ panicky, but filled with something else now, something lighter. Aziraphale was still too afraid to reach for it, but it definitely took the edge off. “Crowley?” his voice was embarrassingly small, laced with tears.

“Aziraphale. Can we talk about this somewhere else? Now?” The demon’s expression had gone urgent. 

“What about the--”

“Taken care of,” Crowley waved a hand carelessly behind him, and the waiter found the total for the bill and his tip tucked in his jacket pocket. The food beat them to Crowley’s flat (Aziraphale would want it later, when he was in a better mood). He grabbed Aziraphale by the wrist, and the two of them disappeared as if they had never been there in the beginning. 

Both angel and demon reappeared in Crowley’s flat mere seconds later. Giving a brief glance around the place and deeming it not cosy enough for the angel, Crowley also miracled in a few armchairs and a sofa. Aziraphale sank into an armchair thankfully. Crowley had begun to pace in rather tight circles, while Aziraphale wrung his hands. There were several taut moments of this before Crowley came to a stop at the end of the room, seeming unsure of what to do next. 

“...Didn’t mean to,” he muttered at last. 

“Sorry, what?” Aziraphale asked timidly. 

“I _didn’t mean to!_ ” Crowley’s hands flew to his hair, where they rooted and pulled. He looked like a man in pain, and though Aziraphale had no idea what was going on with them, he stood and went to him. 

“Mean to what, dearest?” he said in a soothing tone, reaching for Crowley’s entangled hands. Another stupid slip. Aziraphale couldn’t help it; Crowley had been in varying levels of distress for hours. He had to do _something_. In such close proximity, he heard his demon gasp. 

“ _Nevermeanttoloveyou,_ ” Crowley bit out. This time, there was no need for him to repeat himself. Aziraphale was close enough to hear every word. He cringed away from Aziraphale as if he was afraid the angel would hit him. Instinctively, Aziraphale reached for him again, wanting to help, to comfort. Crowley didn’t move this time, but was mumbling something rapidly under his breath that sounded very much like “Ruined everything, I’m so sorry, _sorry,_ ”. 

Taking a deep and unnecessary breath, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley for the first time in their earthly existence. “Crowley. Please calm down.” Crowley was wriggling, struggling, trying to get away--but Aziraphale held tight. With something that sounded suspiciously like a sniffle, Crowley went limp and gave into it, turning his head away again. “I’m stupid, I’m sorry. Let go.” 

“You dumb bastard,” Aziraphale sighed into Crowley’s shirt, taking in the smell of him, the dizzying _closeness_ of their bodies. “Who said I didn’t...feel the same?” Aziraphale knew that he was getting Crowley’s shirt moist with more tears, but he wasn’t planning on detaching anytime soon. 

“You _what_.” 

Crowley twisted to look down at the shorter angel attached to him in wonder. “Wh--h--?” Was all that he could seem to come up with. 

“The Ark,” Aziraphale said, muffled through Crowley’s shirt. He dared to look up at him, wondering if Crowley was feeling half as terrified and thrilled as he was in this moment. “You were so worried for everyone there.The animals, the children. It made me realize that--that you weren’t like any other demon. You were your own person, and--oh, I don’t know, Crowley. That’s when it started. And it hasn’t slowed down since.” The warmth of Crowley’s body was intoxicating, emboldening; Aziraphale straightened a little. 

Crowley blinked several times--something that Aziraphale had never seen him do. “You gave away your fucking sword.” 

He grinned then, something gorgeous and genuine that turned Aziraphale’s poor heart inside out. 

“What took us so long?” Aziraphale whispered. 

“No bloody clue,” Crowley growled, and leaned down to kiss him. 

It was true, Aziraphale had never kissed anyone else in his many millennia of existence. Still, this was, without a doubt, one of the best experiences of his life. Crowley was surprisingly soft, definitely warm, and heart-achingly gentle with him. It was several seconds that he would replay over and over in his head for weeks--though they would get their fill of each other to make up for lost time soon enough. 

When they broke apart, Aziraphale reached out to feel Crowley, and had to stifle a gasp at the wave of love that poured over him. The pain had vanished. “I love you, serpent,” he murmured into the crook of his neck. Crowley sighed contentedly, squeezing him tighter. They were happy to stay like that for as long as they could. 

“Angel,” Crowley said at last in a lighthearted tone, “that was _the_ worst Queen compilation I’ve ever heard.”


	4. Whispers of Love

It couldn’t be real. Surely not. Somewhere along the way on this impossibly long day, the worst had happened, and this was a dream. Crowley was fond of dreams and had been known to nap, curled up in some sunny spot, for years at a time if he could. But now, with Aziraphale clinging tightly to his waist, he wasn’t sure he could ever nap again. It seemed too risky to even let the angel leave his sight, for fear that the illusion would vanish. Not that Aziraphale was going anywhere -- he seemed just as happy to be there as Crowley was. 

In light of what they’d just confessed to each other, Crowley felt more _alive_ than he’d even thought was possible. _Finally,_ in his own body, he was holding his angel. They’d kissed; slow, sweet, beautiful. There was the lingering promise of so much more hanging in the air like perfume -- he could taste it on the roof of his mouth, how they both wanted each other. It was taking all of Crowley’s self-control not to lean down and reclaim Aziraphale’s mouth over and over and _over,_ making up for thousands of years of lost time in one night. He had waited then -- he could be patient. Possibly. 

For now, he watched Aziraphale’s white-blond eyelashes flutter, his eyes dazed. Crowley’s hands had been chastely wrapped around him, but now he let one reach out and cup Aziraphale’s cheek, his breath catching as his angel leaned into it with a little sigh. It was too much, too perfect. Crowley’s heart was pounding as if they were actively ripping each other’s clothes off, just standing rooted to the spot staring at each other. He felt both immensely satisfied and incredibly stupid. He just couldn’t stop staring, soaking in every detail as if it was the last time he would see it. Hell, the averted Armageddon had _really_ gotten to him. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale was peeking up at him in an almost meek way, hazel eyes brand new in their vulnerability. 

“Angel?” he replied hoarsely. He very much longed to move his hand from Aziraphale’s cheek and drag his thumb across the lip he’d just kissed, just to see what kind of response he would get. 

“What -- what would you like to do now?” Crowley watched him blink, swallow, cuddle closer. The scent of lust thickened ever-so-slightly between them, despite the innocence of the action. His pupils were dilating slowly in a way that sent blood _flying_ to Crowley’s crotch. With how close Aziraphale was pressed to him, he would soon feel the effects of it. 

“In all honesty?” Crowley couldn’t help but grin. “Just about everything.” 

“Well, that’s rather vague,” Aziraphale said primly, apparently never missing a moment to give out attitude. 

“Oh, you want specifics? I can do specifics.” Crowley let the hand that was still around Aziraphale’s waist travel further south, pushing his _supple_ bottom forward so that their bodies were pressed hard into one another -- and so that the angel could feel the effect he was having on Crowley’s body. The pressure of Aziraphale on his dick through his trousers was a primal shock of pleasure, and Crowley bit back a groan. 

Crowley knew fully well that he had vanished away the anatomical addition he had created for Aziraphale, yet his angel’s reaction was just as visceral -- if not more so. The shuddering gasp from his pink, _sinfully_ soft lips as Crowley ground briefly against him only served to further Crowley’s condition. It was stupid of him to be _this_ damn excited, he knew. Aziraphale currently wasn’t even sporting anything around that could be called genitalia. In fact, he might have his corporation kept that way for a reason -- that he simply didn’t believe in sex, for example. 

As if he’d read Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale frowned slightly, as if unsure of how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Er, Crowley, the thing is --” 

Crowley pulled back a little, letting him take his time to find the words. Aziraphale didn’t know that Crowley knew about the whole ordeal, and he didn’t want to spoil the moment by confessing to what he’d done all over the angel’s flat just the day before. There would be time for truths laid bare, for every secret sliced open, but now was all about -- well, the now. 

“Well, I haven’t had one in years, and -- ugh, I’m sorry. It’s just rather humiliating.” Aziraphale’s face had gone a pretty shade of amaranth as he tried to turn away, but Crowley held fast; if he had it his way, they would be attached from this point forward. 

“What is it, angel? I won’t laugh. Promise.” Crowley crossed the place where his human heart beat. 

Aziraphale swallowed again quite audibly, and was silent for close to two minutes. Just as Crowley was about to ask what on Earth could be so bad, he squeaked “I used yours.” 

“You fucking _what_.” If Crowley hadn’t been standing so close, he would've never, in six thousand years, believed it. 

Poor Aziraphale looked as if he was about to be reprimanded by God Herself. “I told you it was humiliating -- and completely disrespectful toward your corporation, I _know_. Crowley, I can’t tell you how dreadfully sorry I am, I don’t know what came over me really, I was being crazy, I --” 

He leaned down and kissed his angel for the second time, cutting off his shame, his fear. “Don’t apologize, Aziraphale. It’s nothing I haven’t done, okay?” He looked deep into the hazel eyes he loved so much, enjoying that they had once again taken on that soft and awestruck sheen. “And, well. I _might’ve_...used yours too.” he said in a rush. _Shit_. So much for saving that conversation til later. What Aziraphale had just told him was so unexpected that he’d automatically offered up his truth as well, hoping it would help. 

“In my _bookshop?!_ ” Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, seeming far less offended about the use of his corporation than the suspected violation of his sacred collection’s space. “ _Anthony._ Some of those books are hundreds of years old -- if you were in there knocking them about--” 

Ah, there was the angel he was familiar with. He resisted the urge to comment on certain other _old, delicate things,_ like the one he was currently looking at. No need to get him any more worked up, although it was pretty cute. 

“For your information, I didn’t touch a single moldy volume,” Crowley scoffed. 

“Hmph.” Aziraphale pretended to be cross for a moment longer, before his curiosity got the better of him. “Wait. How did you do anything in my body if I--?”

“Made one myself,” Crowley finished, still slightly proud. 

“Well, I can tell you it’s not here _now!_ What’d you do with it?”

Crowley shrugged, feeling the tips of his ears get hot. "If things hadn’t...worked out, then we wouldn’t exactly be having this conversation at all, would we?” 

“I suppose not.” Aziraphale didn’t speak again for a moment, but the air was still thickening with the need from him, subtly different from his normal scent. Instinctively, Crowley opened his mouth and let it flood the glands on his tongue, needing to smell as much as of it as possible. It reminded him of sweat, his own feathers, and rain on the pavement. “Could you -- make it again? Please? It’s been decades, and I never was great with that kind of magic.” 

“Why _angel_ …” Crowley licked his lips in anticipation. “Of course.” He gestured for Aziraphale to seat himself on the freshly conjured sofa, trailing behind in a kind of drunken wonder. Crowley knelt in front of him, his own erection so hard that it was really beginning to hurt. The implications of kneeling before his angel wasn’t helping, but he took a few deep breaths to steady himself. “Can’t exactly do this through your trousers. Do you want to take them off, or should I?” 

“Oh -- sorry. Of course, just let me --” Carelessly, Aziraphale waved his trousers and pants to the other side of the room. His pupils were blown wide now, though he was obviously trying to keep his composure. Crowley looked down at the angel’s naked thighs, the bare surface that was his to sculpt upon. It was all just as he remembered, but even more beautiful now that he could touch it with his own hands. He took a few minutes just for that purpose; starting with his fingertips from Aziraphale’s knees to his waist, then tracing slow circles on his inner thighs. The almost-silver blond of his body hair was as soft as feather down, his skin as cool as porcelain. 

Above him, Aziraphale was sitting with his head tilted back, eyes closed, whimpering quietly. “Crowley,” he gasped after several more minutes of this, “What are you doing?” 

“Just looking at you,” Crowley whispered. “One beautiful inch at a time. Is that okay?” Slowly, Aziraphale nodded. With a happy hum, Crowley leaned down to place a kiss on the inside of the angel’s knee, loving the groan it elicited. “Alright, down to business now. Promise.” 

Clasping his hands together and rubbing them til a blinding glow emitted from the palms, Crowley placed one directly where Aziraphale’s penis should have been, letting all of his energy and magic flow through him. With the other hand, he drew a series of complex shapes and patterns, occasionally whispering corrections to ensure that the end result was perfect. Aziraphale watched -- and _felt_ \-- in amazement as the sex organ appeared on his body. The heaviness of it shocked him, but more so its beauty; Crowley had made sure every detail was just right. 

“Done.” Crowley released the newly manifested member, sweating slightly from the effort. “You like it?” 

Shyly, Aziraphale let his fingers trail across it -- the thing was already stiffening to attention as they watched. “Beautiful craftsmanship, dear. I’ll keep it.” 

“Good. I worked hard on that -- shame to throw it away.” Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s naked thigh, content for a moment to just look. He felt quite at home here, with the heat of his lover’s sex just inches from his face. If this was really a dream, or some cruel illusion, then reality no longer suited him. 

His angel reached down to run his hand through Crowley’s wavy red hair, breath faltering as he fixated on the erection being strangled in those tight black trousers. “I believe I owe you a favor now, love. If t-that’s quite alright. I’ve never done it to anyone else before, so I’m not positive I’ll be any good --” 

The look on Crowley’s face silenced him. “What?” Aziraphale said, somewhat defensively. 

“Aziraphale. Do you think I’d ever say _no_ to you? About anything? _Especially_ this.” He squirmed, shimmying himself closer in between the angel’s legs. “Angel, _please_ touch me. With your hands, with your mouth, however you want. I need you.” His voice cracked on the word _need_ ; he was reaching the end of his self-restraint rapidly. 

“Well, swap me places, then,” Aziraphale insisted with a breathless little laugh. The three seconds it took for them to go through the simple motion of exchanging places -- Crowley on the couch and Aziraphale kneeling before him on the floor -- seemed a torturously long amount of time. Crowley was only vaguely aware of making the shift to breathing entirely through his mouth, dizzy from the flood of pheromones and the suspense.  
Having wriggled his way in between Crowley’s knees, Aziraphale’s erection brushed against Crowley’s calf teasingly. “Can’t exactly do this through your trousers,” he smiled. One hand rested almost innocently on Crowley’s clothed sex. “Let me help you with those.” Crowley expected him to miracle them away as he had his own, but the angel motioned for him to lean back slightly so he could get to the button and slide them off manually. Somehow, it was even more enticing to see him do it the human way. Aziraphale’s clever little hands grabbed the material of both his trousers and pants, coaxing them down until they were pooled at his ankles. 

At last, his cock sprung free. Crowley could hardly help the small noise of relief he made. It was _almost_ worth the six millennia of waiting to see the look on his angel’s face; the normally more sophisticated of the two struggling to keep it together. Aziraphale _lusted_ for him. And to prove it, he had placed one hand firmly around the base of Crowley’s cock, giving what seemed like an experimental stroke. 

Crowley emitted a sound halfway between a hiss and a gasp. _Fuck--_

“Crowley?”

“Mmh?” 

“Everything okay?”

“You -- serious?” Crowley would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t concentrating so hard on the sensation of _Aziraphale’s bloody hand_. “Angel. Just -- _ah!_ \-- harder? Please?”

The tentative, light squeeze of the angel’s hand around his cock adapted at once to his needs. Crowley’s hands clawed for the couch on either side of him; this was _so good so fast,_ and his hips were rising frantically to meet Aziraphale’s hand now, sloppy with pre-come. He felt impossibly young (perhaps only two thousand), almost embarrassed by how quickly orgasm was pooling deep somewhere below his navel. But this was Aziraphale. How long had he wanted this? Crowley tried not to get caught up in his insecurities, to just lean back and enjoy--

The pressure stopped momentarily. Crowley’s eyes flew open, and he cursed himself for ever shutting them in the first place -- Aziraphale was staring at him openly, biting his lip, his own eyes wide. He’d paused to switch hands -- one on Crowley’s cock, and the other on his own. There was a brief pause, in which they simply looked at one another. Then, having finally had enough of this non-indulgence bullshit, Crowley pounced. 

“Cr-- _mmhf!”_

He claimed Aziraphale, clambering atop him with a passion that could only be described as animal -- pushing past those soft lips with a forked tongue that was eager to explore every inch of his mouth. The angel responded with equal enthusiasm, moaning into Crowley’s own mouth in a way that should have been outlawed. At the same time, Aziraphale wrapped both of his sturdy arms around Crowley, _grinding_ their cocks together in a way that sent shockwaves through both parties. 

“ _Angel,_ oh my God, where’d you learn how to -- to do that?”

“M’jus improvisin’,” Aziraphale answered, eyes lidded.

Hungry for more, Crowley moved his mouth down Aziraphale’s neck, relishing every needy sound that he was met with. _Fucking Somebody,_ the noises he was making -- between the unsophisticated friction, the breathy panting and moaning, and the sheer _delight_ that this was actually happening, Crowley was going to come in a matter of moments. He could only hope that his angel was enjoying this just as much. 

Somewhere around suckling Aziraphale’s delicious little earlobe, Crowley happened to find a weakness. Just as he flicked his tongue inside the angel’s ear, Aziraphale responded most beautifully. 

“Crowley, Crowley, oh -- _oh!_ Babe, I’m -- _oh, fuck--”_

With a gasping, keening cry, Aziraphale came convulsively across Crowley’s chest, spattering his shirt and jacket. 

Crowley allowed him a few moments to catch his breath, but unable to lay off the teasing. “Ear fetish? Really?” 

“I didn’t know before now any more than you did,” Aziraphale said with a blush, propping himself up on his elbows. “That was amazing, dear. I’m so sorry about your outfit.”

“Ah, it’ll wash out.” 

They grinned at each other -- lovers, confidants, complete. Crowley rolled over on his back beside Aziraphale, and was dimly aware that the sky had taken on the rusty edge of sunrise. 

“So,” the angel began.

“Yes?” 

“What would you like to do _now?”_ Aziraphale was smirking at him, hair a mess and face still bright from exertion. What a cheeky, beautiful, impossible bastard. 

“Is _you_ specific enough of an answer?” Crowley reached out to cup his cheek again, feeling impossibly lucky, feeling loved, practically feeling _Risen._

“Yes, I believe that’ll do, love.” 

_Author's note: Yes, I know. Poor Crowley didn't come at all this chapter. Sorry, I just love Aziraphale too much. :) Don't worry, I'm sure our demon will enjoy himself plenty in chapter five!_


	5. Eternal, Infinite, Equal, and Pure

Oh, this had mere friendship beat by _miles_. Why had he, of all angels, declined this particular aspect of the human nature for so long? It was absolutely lovely. _Crowley_ was lovely. Here on the floor, taking a moment to just lie there and absorb one another, he had no sarcasm, no snark. Aziraphale had never seen him quite this open, willing, and peaceful. His yellow-gold eyes were half-closed, a lazy smile draped on his usually tense features. It made that traitorous organ trapped in Aziraphale’s chest give a painful squeeze. Weak rays of sun had begun to spill into the flat, and neither one of them knew where all of that time had gone. It didn’t matter anymore; time was theirs to unspool as they chose. No clock against them, no one to report to, no agenda. 

Aziraphale wished it had happened sooner, wished that he hadn’t been bound all these millennia by Heaven’s codes, and told Crowley so as they laid in a puddle of limbs and scent. He pushed the words into the bone of his demon’s shoulder, laid apologies and kisses along his collarbone with a bravery that he hadn’t known he’d possessed. Crowley accepted the kisses but batted away the “sorry”s, content as a kitten and as warm as a freshly made cup of tea. His erection still strained between them, though not seeming quite as urgent as it had been with Aziraphale’s hand grasped around it moments before. He shifted experimentally, loving the feel of it against his bare leg. Crowley’s little sigh was his reward for this further show of courage; he dared a glance at his face and thrilled at the bliss there. _He_ had done this to Crowley, and planned to continue doing so for as long as possible. 

If Aziraphale was the sleeping type, he would have perhaps been content to curl up there, spent and warm and pleased. He had never really taken to that particular human phenomenon, however -- there were far too many books in the world to be read -- and anyway, Crowley’s own obvious excitement was causing his to flare up once more. The angel might have been a virgin, but he was far from ignorant on the subject of sex. He’d stumbled upon all manner of...interactions… through his years on Earth, much to his chagrin. Humans really would do anything, and do it _anywhere_. 

Now, he finally understood why. Passion, _lust_ , the beautiful feeling of skin-on-skin and the noise of breath, was as enticing as any gourmet dish or well-crafted read. His temptations, his sins, the ever-growing list of reasons scrawled in Heaven’s memo book of why he just didn’t belong. _To hell with that,_ Aziraphale thought, feeling a surge of protection toward his oldest friend. They -- Heaven, Hell, or Human -- would never rip them apart again. 

“Dearheart?” Aziraphale started, after a long stretch of silence. At the almost comical look of confusion on Crowley’s face, he quickly added, “Can I call you that?” 

Crowley reddened -- which had a terrible clashing effect with his hair. Aziraphale loved it. 

“Call me whatever you like,” he muttered. “Been hanging ‘round you six thousand years, not like you can embarrass me now.” 

“You are both a liar and currently blushing.”

“Fuck off,” Crowley growled, grappling Aziraphale and flipping him so that the angel rested on top of Crowley with a surprised squeal. 

Aziraphale found himself laughing from the exhilaration of the childish play, feeling as light as the sunbeams invading the flat windows. He planted a hand on either side of Crowley’s chest and leaned in to kiss him, quickly getting lost in the feeling of his mouth, his _eagerness_. He pulled away for breath several seconds later, eyes bright. “Oh, Anthony. I am going to call you _so_ many appalling pet names. And you will love it.” 

Crowley managed to blush so thoroughly that his color changed from his ear tips to his neck.  
“We’ll see.”

With a happy little hum, Aziraphale kissed all the signs of rosiness on the demon’s body, his own cock now standing at full attention. His breath had quickened without his permission, Crowley’s following suit. Letting his eyes dart down to the cock he was straddling, Aziraphale watched it leak fluid onto its owner’s exposed thighs. Ready, waiting, willing. 

“As I was saying,” he resumed shakily, letting his lips linger at Crowley’s ear, “weren’t we doing something?” 

“Mmmmh,” Crowley groaned, the sound sending little shivers down Aziraphale’s spine. “Yeah, but. Only -- only if you wanted to. S’why I waited.” 

“What a gentleman.” Aziraphale let his lips roam lower, suckling that defined collarbone again, drinking in the cry that Crowley let out as if it would give him life. Something was awakening in him, something that hungered and roamed and _needed_. Suddenly he craved the sight of Crowley’s naked body under him, _all_ of it -- and with a small but flashy hand gesture, the wish was true. 

“ _Angel!_ ” Crowley cried in mock outrage. “My _dignity!_ ” 

Aziraphale only snorted, his brain not quite capable of firing back a witty response at the moment. Crowley’s body was just as captivating as he’d remembered. The strawberry blonde trail of hair that led to his cock, the slender expanse of his chest, the damned _nipple ring…_

“In case you were still wondering,” Aziraphale said in between kisses, placing his tongue on said nipple, “I am very interested.” He let his tongue wander, mixing the taste of flesh and industry. Crowley _writhed_ at that, making a sound that could have been a sob or a moan. 

“Then let’s not waste any more bloody time,” came his heated voice from above Aziraphale.  
In a rush, Crowley’s arms wrapped around him again -- flipping him back over, getting to his feet, then offering his hand in what felt like one fluid motion. Aziraphale stood, but before he could take the hand offered to him, Crowley had scooped him up bridal-style in his wiry arms -- as if it had taken absolutely no strength on his part. Aziraphale found himself crying out again in surprise, biting on a wild shriek of a laugh as they thundered down the hall, almost toppling over at one point but managing to right themselves with a minor miracle. Good Lord, did he feel young.

They were both breathless with laughter by the time they got to the bedroom. Aziraphale turned the doorknob, and Crowley carried him over the threshold like they were fresh from their wedding ceremony. 

“Y’know,” Crowley said with a little smirk, “some humans believe that carrying their brides protects them from demons.” 

“Something tells me that there’s not any truth in that expression.” He was lowered as gingerly as a god’s offering, pulse quickening as he remembered the bedroom and what had occurred last time he’d set foot there. The mirror, most noticeably, was gone. Seeing how Aziraphale looked to the empty space, Crowley stammered, “I -- I wanted it to just be us. Does that make sense? No distractions.”

He did understand, though Crowley sometimes spoke in circles or hills around his point. More importantly, he _wanted --_ and _right this instant._

“You _are_ a distraction,” Aziraphale teased, pulling him in for another kiss. God, but his mouth was intoxicating. Crowley had forgone the chasteness of mere lips and poked his tongue into the angel’s mouth, making him whimper in a way most unbecoming. It only served as encouragement for his other half; Crowley’s hands went to Aziraphale’s hips, creeping beneath the fabric to squeeze the skin. 

“And _you,_ ” he breathed, pulling back for a second to give him a very salacious once over with wide yellow eyes, “should have been naked a long time ago.” 

In truth, Aziraphale had very nearly forgotten that he wasn’t. All of this newness was so distracting that clothes were really the last thing on his mind. He held up his hand to wave them away, not wanting to concentrate hard enough to do it the human way, but Crowley caught his wrist gently. 

“Can I?” he asked, almost a whisper. 

The answering nod set Crowley to work. Aziraphale held utterly still as Crowley undid his vest buttons, noting the subtle tremble of his fingers. He said nothing, almost fearing that it would scare the demon away -- and this beautiful new reality with him. Instead, he merely watched, trying to project as much warmth and reassurance as he could into the air; Crowley suddenly felt quite nervous. With all the buttons undone and the vest removed, Crowley placed a hand on his chest over the button-down top, eyes dilated significantly. Aziraphale wondered if this was a… _pointed interest_ of Crowley’s, undressing him in this way. 

Crowley’s eyes moved to his neck, an unformed question on his slightly parted lips. It was funny to see the gears turning in his poor mind -- _Bow tie? How to bow tie?_

“Here, petal,” Aziraphale said, beaming because he couldn’t help it. “Let me help you. Just take either end of the bow, and -- there! See?” Like a magic act, the kind Crowley detested, the bowtie hung loose and open around his neck. Crowley said nothing -- in fact, he didn’t move a single muscle for at least twenty seconds. His very _presence_ froze and stopped. 

“Dear? Crowley, what’s --” That was all he had time to say before Crowley sprang back into action, making up for his seconds of stillness. Placing one hand on either side of Aziraphale’s collar, the demon _ripped_ the button-down right off his shoulders, eyes drinking in every inch of bare flesh as it appeared. The bow tie slithered to the ground like a frightened garden snake, the tatters of the shirt flopped uselessly on his arms. Aziraphale was too shocked to be properly cross; and frankly, there just wasn’t time. Crowley was busy placing those shirt-slaying hands on his ass, _lifting_ him -- Aziraphale placed his legs ‘round Crowley’s waist, following some long-sleeping human instinct. In a weightless moment that felt like flight, he was walked backward a step and then dropped on the bed, Crowley looming over him like a predator. Aziraphale was hyper aware of the placement of Crowley’s cock -- resting in the cleft of him as if of its own accord. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hissed out, his voice low and roughened with need, “You -- are so -- goddamn gorgeous.” 

Aziraphale made some sort of indecent sound that didn’t really count as language. His mind was full of the thought of Crowley, his dick, so close to a place he had _quite_ secretly wanted it. His own appendage was ramrod straight, brushing Crowley’s chest and moistening it with anticipating drops. Noticing the angel’s situation, Crowley lowered his mouth to it, breath as hot as sin. Aziraphale squirmed and bucked for it, already knowing the joys of that clever tongue beyond, but not expecting how it would feel. 

It was worship, delight, agony, and the lightning hot strike of pleasure that would soon be too strong to stop. The sucking, hot, _wetness_ of what Crowley was doing to him would be bad enough, but his tongue was darting, caressing, rubbing -- it had him incoherent. 

“Crowley, _oh_ my God, _please_ \--” What he was asking for, he wasn’t sure. He was reaching for Crowley, wanting as much contact as possible. “ _Crowley, Crowley_ , that’s amazing I -- please --!” Orgasm was building deep in the cradle of his hips, and he bucked in earnest, tears of effort gathering in the corners of his eyes. His body had _never_ wanted something as much as this. Unbidden, one wing and then the other unfurled from their hiding place just below his shoulder blades -- he hadn’t the mental concentration to hide them away anymore -- and with just Crowley it didn’t matter. The demon watched them peek out from under Aziraphale, clearly surprised, smiling around the cock in his mouth. He disconnected from the thing with a lewd _pop_ , and Aziraphale could have wept at the sheer frustration. 

“Getting comfortable, are we?” He asked, his expression a mockery of innocence. He reached out to brush a few of Aziraphale’s secondaries with his fingertips, and the angel let out a low whine. 

“Crowley,” he began, eyes wide and pleading. 

“What, no more pet names?” He was enjoying this far too much, the downright _evil_ bastard. 

“You _tosser_ ,” Aziraphale huffed out. 

“Oh- _ho_!” Crowley’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “What a fiesty angel I hath tempted.” 

“Anthony, if you don’t fuck me right this _instant_ \--” He felt his face flush almost painfully; he’d never meant to say that, not in that _manner_ \-- but God Herself, his need. 

Crowley pulled back, staring at him a bit slack-mouthed, as if they had never met. Aziraphale wondered if he’d said the wrong thing, if this was the moment where they put on all of their clothes and pretended none of this had ever happened. 

“ _Well._ Alrighty then.” Swallowing audibly, Crowley plucked something out of the air that he didn’t quite recognize at first -- a small bottle with a flip cap, clear liquid and something written on the label that could only mean -- oh. It was a lubricant. _Oh._

Just as quickly as it had appeared, Crowley’s bravado had vanished, a wave gone from the shore of him. He could be like that, Aziraphale knew, one second feeling one thing quite strongly and the next another. He had long grown used to it, grown a patience for it. It was just the way he was, and now Aziraphale felt tentatively out for the next thing his new love was overcome by. Though not as terrible as last night’s sheer and utter panic, Aziraphale still had to take a breath as he moved away from this new set of emotions. There was _concern_ there, muddled with anxiety, fear of rejection, the surging want, the desire to be enough. A surprising amount of dark for the situation, Aziraphale surmised. 

Gentle as God’s first breath of wind, the angel laid his hand upon Crowley’s cheek. “Listen. This will be amazing.” 

Crowley bit his lip and looked away, shy but grateful for the words. “So invasive, y’know. Could’ve just _asked_ me how I felt.” He kissed Aziraphale’s hand, nibbling the pinkie ring. Aziraphale melted at how soft he looked, all the sharp lines of his face subdued with affection.  
“You wouldn't have answered honestly.” Aziraphale smiled, leaning back again so that he was mostly flat on the mattress. “Now, dearheart, erm. _Make love_ to me?” 

Crowley looked at him with reverence. “Of course, angel.” 

He fumbled for the bottle, disappeared somewhere in the sheets, and in this moment Aziraphale felt the need to say what he was sure was already known. “I’ve never, er, done this particular...thing,” he finished lamely. Thankfully, Crowley didn’t tease him for it. He only placed a hand on each of the angel’s thighs, urging them into the air. “Then I’ll teach you everything,” was his simple reply. 

Aziraphale throbbed in excitement. _Everything_. He let his legs fall open, more than eager to be the student. The top of the bottle was clicked open, its contents squeezed into Crowley’s hand. He worked the slick substance onto his fingers, and in an instant Aziraphale knew exactly what he meant to do. Eyes on his angel’s the whole time, Crowley let the hand travel slowly, so slowly, up his thigh, past his cock, eventually settling directly over his exposed hole. Aziraphale shivered, wings dangling haphazardly over the edge of the bed. “Will it hurt?” he blurted out, timid. 

Crowley kissed the inside of his knee. “Angel. It’ll be as slow as you need, got it? I’d never hurt you.” 

The angel nodded, trusted. After a beat, Crowley continued. One finger laid on the pucker of him, slick as anything and tracing the rim in slow circles. “Oh--” he gasped, unable to help it. The sensitivity was unlike anything he’d known. Crowley cocked his head and paused, asking without asking. “Keep going, please,” he implored, far from done with this. His eyes threatened to slide closed, overwhelmed with the sensations. 

In one slow, unyielding motion, Crowley had pushed the finger inside him. Aziraphale _lurched_ back, unprepared for the invasiveness of it, the burning stretch -- but Crowley’s unusually gentle hand on his thigh and his delay let the angel know that this was fine, normal, it was all okay. 

“Just try and relax,” Crowley advised in a murmur. “I know, it’s a bit weird at first.” Aziraphale did just as he’d asked, exhaling slowly, letting his demon explore him. The digit continued to press further inside him, until it had disappeared entirely. Crowley was moving it in the smallest of crooking motions, forcing small sounds out of Aziraphale that could have been pleasure, pain, or both. 

“I’ve got you, angel, easy,” Crowley’s breath was a hiss, equally committed to stretching and reassuring him at once. “Ready for another?” 

Aziraphale paused, evaluated. He could feel his fucking _pulse_ around Crowley, but it no longer burned. The sensation of something inside him, _Crowley_ inside him, was something he wanted more of. So he nodded at the question, ready for more firsts with this extraordinary man. The next finger slipped up against the first, making a kind of widening, scissoring motion that made Aziraphale’s legs tremble. Crowley worked them in and out of his body, a mockery of what they’d soon begin. Aziraphale found his hands clenching in the sheets at the feeling of being filled, used, pleasured. His breath was coming in shallow pants, cock twitching as Crowley’s fingers danced and rubbed _something_ inside of him, all the while moving at a snail’s pace. He was about to discorporate from the agony of it.

“Crowley,” he interrupted at the sight of him attempting to slide a third finger inside. “I -- that is, if you’re ready, I’m -- can we move on?” 

“Impatient?” Crowley smiled, the flash of his teeth destroying any chance of his expression’s innocence. 

With a growl that surprised even him, Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s dick and aligned it with himself. “Inside of me, Crowley.”

Crowley licked his lips, pushing just slightly into Aziraphale so that his cock head disappeared. “Yes, _sir_.” 

And then, in one agonizing push, Crowley’s cock hugged tight within his body’s warmth. Aziraphale didn’t realize he was biting the skin between his thumb and finger until Crowley attempted to pull the hand from his teeth; eyes all concern and worry. 

“Is it too much? Aziraphale?” 

“For God’s sake, you complete -- _harder_ ,” Aziraphale insisted, half insistent on his needs and half focused on letting Crowley know how ridiculous he was being. He wasn’t fragile, after all, just...soft. 

The command made Crowley cry out in need, his hands braced on the angel’s waist as he eased in to the hilt. He sat there for a moment -- Aziraphale made a wonderful picture, all spread open and red-faced, after all -- then withdrew almost fully. The air between them was static as he hesitated, then _thrust_ deep into his angel once more. Aziraphale moaned in full voice, almost fearing that he would be heard by Crowley's neighbors. His wings flapped helplessly beneath him, and the shattering of a nearby lamp phased neither of them. His hands reached out for Crowley’s, fingers intertwining, and the tender gesture seemed to encourage him. 

He could tell that Crowley couldn’t do this for very long. His eyes had gone all unfocused, a small string of expletives flowing from his forked tongue as if he couldn’t help them. Aziraphale’s own orgasm was just budding in his hips when Crowley threw his head back, thrusts growing shallow and desperate. His once tender hands were grasping Aziraphale as if he was the only thing connecting him to the planet.

“Angel,” he panted. “Angel, I’m so fucking _close_.”

Forgetting his own pleasure -- because how the _hell_ could he ignore Crowley’s? -- Aziraphale purred in the most velvety of voices, “Then by all means, dove. Come inside me.” 

This is all it takes. With a strangled shout and a final thrust, Crowley spends himself. Aziraphale kisses him through it, leaning forward with some effort. The warmth of Crowley spills out of him, overfilling him, and he shudders at the filthy satisfaction of it. 

“Jesus,” Crowley sighs, a sheen of sweat broken out on his forehead. Aziraphale sees, with some glee, that he too has forgone the need to hide his wings away -- they slump on either side of the demon’s skinny torso, so black that the feathers shone iridescent green. He reached out to touch one, much in the way that Crowley himself did. It had been thousands of years since they’d had them out casually. 

“Does that mean you enjoyed yourself?” Aziraphale’s eyes gleam with something that borders on wickedness. He feels Crowley ease out of him, soft, with an indecent squelch. 

“Probably.” Crowley reaches out to embrace him, and Aziraphale could never say no to that. “M’sorry. That -- that wasn’t much. I --” 

Aziraphale shushes him. “It was perfect, you ridiculous thing.” He patted the bed beside him.  
“Let’s just lay here a moment. We have ages and ages, after all.” 

“And ages,” Crowley added with a sigh, a little smile quirking up his mouth. Dismounting Aziraphale, he curled up tight into his angel’s side, and together they stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi folks! I hope you enjoyed chapter five; I poured my heart into this one. <3 I have one more chapter I want to write, just because I had so many ideas left over for this particular storyline. 
> 
> Also, I will be podficcing this story! So stay tuned. 
> 
> Love,   
> WickedScribbles.


	6. Kiss an Angel Good Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So sorry for the long gap between posts. Some things were going on, as I'm sure *things* were happening to many of you all over the world. All I can say is my family is safe but stressed. I hope all of you are doing well and staying healthy. 
> 
> Anyhoo, this is the last chapter! I had a blast writing it and feel it wraps things up nicely. :) I'm far from done with these two, though. I just love them too much to let them go yet, and have several more ideas bouncing around. 
> 
> If you'd like to keep up with my writing between posts, I started an instagram for little WIP shots and some fandom related art that I do! It's wicked dot scribbles. 
> 
> Stay safe, and happy reading. 
> 
> PS -- If you're curious, the chapter title comes from an old country song that makes me think of these two. <3  
> And yeah, I did put my succulents in a fic.

Crowley had not slept in two hundred and twenty-three days. After all, why should he? His subconscious mind was no longer more pleasant than what awaited him in waking hours. In the past seven or so months, following that turn of events in Crowley’s own flat, he and Aziraphale were -- what did the humans call it? -- an item. Together. Dating. Boyfriend and boyfriend. He didn’t care how it was phrased, only that it was happening. And more than that, Aziraphale wanted him around all the time, was just as delighted as he was. 

About two weeks in, a customer had caught him slinking around the front desk, muttering something flirtatious to Aziraphale and leaning in _far_ too close for the gesture to be mere friendliness. She’d asked his angel if Crowley was a new hire -- an _employee_ , for the love of everything unholy -- and Aziraphale had merrily clasped Crowley’s hand in his own and told the human girl that they were _partners_. The two of them had chatted on, with their “oh how _nice_ , Mr. Fell” and “ _thank_ you, dear”s, while Crowley had to struggle out of Aziraphale’s grasp to hide how utterly red he’d gone. The word _partners_ had bounced around in his head for the rest of the day. 

“Partners?” He’d said a few hours later, once the shop had closed. He was walking up the steps to Aziraphale’s comfortable little flat, delivery boxes crowded in his arms. It had kind of just come out of his mouth, like a secret that had to be shared and dissected. 

“Mm?” Aziraphale wasn’t really listening; he was struggling to open the wine. 

“Earlier today. Y’know, in front of the bookshop girl. You called us that.” 

“I did.” Aziraphale’s eyes were bright, the faintest trace of a smile flirting on his mouth. “Would you prefer I use a different term, dearest?”

“Er -- no. I’m just.” Crowley sighed. “I liked it. It was nice, okay?” He was rubbish at saying things. They came out all wrong, either backwards or sideways, more likely to offend than assure. He set the food on the table so that he could jam his hands in his pockets. 

“Oh, you _are_ a grumpy thing.” Aziraphale came around the table and embraced Crowley’s tense figure. “Did you think I _wouldn’t_ tell the whole world that you’re mine, as soon as the opportunity presented itself?” He leaned up on his toes and kissed the corner of Crowley’s mouth, which did wonders for the demon’s disposition. 

This was the problem with Aziraphale -- he made it almost impossible to sulk for any length of time. Instead, Crowley more often than not found himself melting into a puddle of lovestruck goo at every turn. “You’re so soft,” Crowley said quietly, unable to keep from smiling. 

“That’s why you love me.” The angel reached out to tap the tip of Crowley’s nose with his finger, raising his eyebrows mischievously. “Now, let’s tuck in, darling. Don’t want dinner going cold.” 

From then on, they had taken turns spending nights at one another’s flats, eventually settling in Aziraphale’s. Crowley moved in after two months of the back and forth, and now his beautiful plants sat in the sun-soaked windows of the bookstore. His angel had wanted to try his hand at growing plants, too (an honest attempt, not like years ago when he’d pretended to be the Dowling’s gardener and Crowley had done the actual gardening), and now a row of succulents sat on his kitchen windowsill. The silly creature had named them all (Bruce, Sophia, Ron, Michael, and bloody _Pancake_ if anyone was asking), but still somehow forgot to water them. 

In return, Crowley had taken up reading. It gave him something to do when Aziraphale was busy with his shop, though truthfully he had cut the hours down so that they could spend more time together. When he’d told his angel he was halfway through _The Giver_ , Aziraphale’s eyes had widened to the size of saucers. They’d discussed it for hours after, and Crowley finished the novel curled up in his lap the next night, feeling safe and tended to and understood. 

There were dates every weekend, which they took turns planning. Crowley preferred taking Aziraphale to the hip little ice cream joints which had started popping up everywhere -- perhaps in part because of what the angel’s tongue could do to an ice cream cone -- then off to Cahoot’s for a cocktail, letting the ice cream settle and the world grow blurry. Ideally, they would wrap the evening up after one or two of these, and the night would end in a rush of sweat and sex in Aziraphale’s bed. 

But Aziraphale’s idea of an outing was more elaborate, which did not surprise him. Everything he did had to be ever so slightly more elaborate. Aziraphale was content to pick a starting point and walk for hours, swinging their hands idly and ducking into any shop that caught his interest. They could be out from noon to sunset, just wandering around on the angel’s whim. Crowley had to admit that Aziraphale’s way could be just as fun. 

As they grew more and more committed to one another, there was even talk of moving out of London entirely. If he was being honest, Crowley wanted that badly -- he was terribly bored when the bookstore was open, and it wasn’t as if he had any work to do anymore. He occasionally still got out and made some trouble, but it was just to pass the time. Lovestruck fool that he was, Crowley could mainly be found hanging around Aziraphale, watching him rebind books with loving attention, miracling in a broom to sweep the shop in a slow moment (it was filthy, though Aziraphale would argue against the fact), dozing as a snake in one of the sunny windows. He would do anything to have that beautiful man all to himself, day after day. 

A rather annoying question plagued him, in the spaces when his angel was looking away, or when he was walking alone on the damp London streets. _Should I ask him to marry me? _Even thinking the words made his breath catch. It was human tradition, of course, but ancient and sacred as well. Aziraphale was about as romantic as they came, but would he go for it? It would hardly be a stressful event to plan; just the two of them, if Crowley had his way. And then, the rest of their lives.__

____

Crowley’s mind jumped back to a few weeks prior, when he’d held Aziraphale’s hand in the tattoo parlor. The angel had insisted that he himself get one to match him, had even had Crowley draw out the design. It had taken a little over an hour and cost Crowley the use of the fingers on his left hand from how tightly Aziraphale had gripped them, but in the end, they matched. The black feather on his ankle had the tiniest of snakes wrapped around its quill. Underneath, the Latin phrase _Ab Imo Pectore_. When they got home, Crowley bent and gave it the lightest of kisses, and had cleaned the skin for him ever since. He was _such_ a fool for this angel, Someone save him. 

____

Here in the present, Crowley was tracing his finger innocently over the outline of the healed mark. He lay at the foot of the bed, while his angel nestled amongst the pillows reading some (terribly inaccurate) historical recount of Casanova’s exploits on women. The hair around his ankle was just beginning to grow back in full force, lighter than sunbeams and softer than a kiss. Crowley’s finger roamed slightly higher than the exposed skin, creeping under Aziraphale’s trousers to draw lazy hearts on his calf. 

____

The angel in question looked over, his glance inquisitive. “What are you doing down there?” 

____

Crowley shrugged, feeling playful. “Only as much as is welcome, _sugar_.” 

____

The pet name set Aziraphale to blushing almost at once; once Crowley had grown comfortable with them in his mouth, he couldn’t get enough of using them against him. He tried, eagerly and often, to make them as mushy and embarrassing as possible -- as Aziraphale had once promised him _he_ would do. In short, it was a game, and neither of them quite wanted to stop.

____

The book closed with a muffled snap, and the bed shifted as Aziraphale crawled to lie sideways on the bed beside him. 

____

“Is that some sort of...proposition?” His eyebrows drew together as if he could never fathom such a thing; the virtuous expression only goaded Crowley on. When it came to sexual exploits, Aziraphale had left innocence behind _long_ ago. The odd combination of him, the sweetness of his personality and the intensity of his newly budded desires, was something Crowley couldn’t get enough of. The same man that smiled brightly at babies in prams on the sidewalk would in the same day pin him to the wall in the back room of the bookshop with a grin that said he was _very_ proud of himself. 

____

Crowley invited the attention in whatever mood the angel found himself in; gentle and submissive, or cocky and assertive. He was -- and suspected he would always be -- thrilled to have captured Aziraphale’s affection, and was not picky about how he received it. And with the way that Aziraphale was teasing him, Crowley could already tell that he was leaning towards the latter mannerism. A certain _shift_ had happened in the balance of power between them, an unspoken push-and-pull. While normally it was Crowley making the first move, initiating the touch that turned from sweet to sexual, now Aziraphale laid one hand on his ass and squeezed. 

____

“Oh _really_ ,” Crowley chuckled. “Now who’s propositioning?” 

____

Aziraphale’s hand didn’t budge; the touch deepened along with his expression of mischief. “What, I can’t fondle my _lovely, sweet_ boyfriend in the privacy of my own flat, at my leisure?” 

____

The praise always sent ice and magma through Crowley simultaneously. While a part of him yearned to decline the commendations, to shove the mixed feelings that bubbled up into some dark corner, stomp on them and leave them to die -- another part of him wanted to hear the words again. After all of these months, Crowley was beginning to wonder. _Was_ he actually good? Would Aziraphale keep saying these things if he didn’t mean them? It was all a mess somewhere in his chest, in the space neglected. Eventually it would all come up, like a tangled mess of string and ink, ugly and hard to even think about. Hopefully someone would be willing to help him through it someday.

____

Noticing the wrinkle that had formed on Crowley’s brow, Aziraphale reached up to smooth it. “I have news.”

____

“News?” 

____

“Remember that property in South Downs we were looking at?” 

____

He did. Even now he had the link pulled up on his mobile -- knew the asking price, the number of offers, how many rooms the cottage had and what each looked like. Though they hadn’t been out to pay an official visit with a realtor, an inconspicuous snake had slithered over every square inch of the property and fallen in love with it. 

____

The cottage was handsomely built, with high ceilings and wood floors. The windows were wide and ample, and Crowley could just imagine sunlight pouring through them. There was plenty of room for the several hundreds of books Aziraphale couldn’t part with, and best of all was the attached greenhouse. As if moving to the country wasn’t a good enough chance to really roll up his shirtsleeves and indulge in his gardening, this was a whole _space_ devoted to it. He had a _feeling_ about this cottage, though they’d seen a handful of others. Of course, Crowley hadn’t said that to Aziraphale, in case it turned out that they couldn’t get it. He’d settle anywhere with this beautiful, contradictory being. 

____

Aziraphale had grown too impatient for Crowley’s response. “Well -- the couple that put their offer in backed out -- and I kind of _swooped_ in!” He was beaming, and there was a faint glow around him that could sometimes appear when he got too excited. _The Glow Stick Effect_ , Crowley liked to call it. 

____

Crowley was vaguely aware of his mouth popping open with an audible sound. “Y-- really?” Was all he got out before Aziraphale was blustering on. 

____

“I know it seems sudden, and we haven’t even been out to see it, for goodness’ sake, but Crowley -- I just had a really good feeling about it. Like this is our place. I couldn’t watch it slip away.” His eyes had gone all round and earnest in a way that made Crowley unable to refuse him a single thing on this strange planet. 

____

He leaned in to kiss his angel, slow and sweet. “Y'know, I got that feeling too.”

____

A small but confident hand curled its way into his hair, feeling through the loose waves that had grown out the past few months, tugging lightly at the roots. Crowley sighed and leaned into the touch like an eager housecat, loving the sensation. Aziraphale pulled away slowly to look at him, licking his lips in what had to be a calculated motion. 

____

“The realtor was fairly confident that my offer wouldn’t be challenged,” his angel continued, as if his cock wasn’t pressing firmly into Crowley’s thigh now. “If it doesn’t move in a week, we’ll be homeowners, love. A whole space just for us. No busy street below.” 

____

_No one to hear us fucking each other senseless._

____

“That sounds bloody amazing,” Crowley breathed, moving his body instinctively to rub against the temptation in front of him. “No more miracling the walls soundproof.” 

____

Aziraphale only sighed in response, letting his hand trail from where it lay on Crowley’s buttock to his crotch. He felt him freeze in surprise and struggled not to laugh out loud; the usual equipment wasn’t there, and Aziraphale seemed to be at a loss. 

____

“Er, Crowley?” The angel’s hand remained there, as if uncertain of what to do. 

____

“What’s wrong, angel?” Smirking, Crowley went for the button on his jeans, shimmying them down to his knees in one fluid motion. 

____

“You didn’t tell me you switched out, you devious little thing,” Aziraphale was fixated on Crowley’s pubic mound, the soft red hair that spread between his legs. 

____

Crowley just shrugged. “Haven’t had one in a while. Just felt like a change. _And..._ I really wanted to see that look on your face.” He squirmed slightly, already feeling wet. 

____

He watched Aziraphale swallow, felt the erection jump against his leg. “Well,” began his proper English angel, “I’m not familiar with the anatomy, but I shall endeavor to love it as thoroughly as your cock.” 

____

His heart sang, among other things. “ _Fuck me_ ,” Crowley hissed, unable to take the anticipation any longer. 

____

Those eyes were still far too sweet when he replied, “But of course, love.” 

____

In less time than it took to blink, Crowley’s clothes had disappeared -- but knowing his lover's fondness for undressing him, Aziraphale himself had remained fully clothed. Crowley wasn’t sure exactly _why_ it drove him so crazy -- only that watching Aziraphale go from a tidy, well kept gentleman to a naked, blushing disaster at his hands (and his hands alone) always reduced his willpower to ash. 

____

The bow tie always went first, naturally. Crowley now did it up for him every morning, making sure it was just-so; this made it all the more satisfying to undo later. (Even if he wasn't going to be untying it with devious intentions, seeing his angel walking around the bookshop in the little tartan bow that he’d done himself made him glow with pleasure.) It came apart easily under his fingers, as if it knew better than to put up a fight. Then went the vest, unbuttoned with great care -- the cursed thing was going on two centuries old now, but Aziraphale refused to part with it. Perhaps he could be tempted into just the tie and button-down shirt someday, if only because it made these moments that much easier. The thought increased Crowley’s pace where he would normally stop and savor. He kneeled on the bed to shimmy Aziraphale’s trousers and pants off, flinging them carelessly off the edge somewhere, and unbuttoned the (brand new) sky blue dress shirt. 

____

Before the shirt could come off, Aziraphale’s hands were roaming him. Crowley had no say in the way he was suddenly placed flat on his back, righted on the bed in a way that was disorienting. Had he miracled them this way, or actually moved that fast? Crowley wasn’t sure. Aziraphale, he was finding out, had strength far beyond his gentle exterior. Although the angel never acknowledged it, none of his divine power had left him -- and Crowley was excited to see how they could explore this aspect whenever the Aziraphale felt comfortable. _If_ he ever felt comfortable. He seemed keen to never speak about the more heavenly aspects of his person, acted almost embarrassed of them. Crowley couldn’t see why, as he adored every new facet that the angel wanted to show him, but was willing to give him the space. 

____

New facets such as _this_ ; Aziraphale’s tongue lapping at the skin of his clavicle, unbidden and eager. Apparently he was just as impatient as Crowley, because the touch didn’t linger there. A flurry of kisses, wet and deep, made their way down his body. Crowley shivered into him, weak with what he wanted to happen, as his angel’s cute little pointed nose paused just above the newly miracled labia. 

____

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hummed, pausing theatrically. “Now, I’m not sure what I should do here.” 

____

_Oh, for fuck’s sake_. Crowley grit his teeth and tried not to let out a desperate whine. He felt himself clench involuntarily, and watched Aziraphale’s eyes flick down to watch -- the utter _tease_ was loving every second. 

____

“Tongue, angel,” Crowley managed to gasp out. “A lot of it.” 

____

“Really? Interesting.” Aziraphale’s expression remained politely curious even as he drew close enough to leave warm breath on Crowley’s slit. As his nose nestled in the light red curls, Crowley couldn’t take it anymore -- a whimper escaped him, a high and needy sound. 

____

Stopping with his mouth exactly two millimeters from Crowley’s opening, Aziraphale drew back. Crowley nearly reared up and _bit_ him; the tension was overwhelming and infuriating. 

____

“My goodness, love. Is this really so exciting to you?” The angel rested his head on Crowley’s thigh and peered up at him. He really was a dirty, dirty sinner when he felt the urge to be. 

____

“What do you think?” Crowley breathed. He was certain that Aziraphale could smell his sex -- and even more certain that the angel was in just as bad of shape as he. He was just keeping himself together for the sake of the game. Crowley could taste his lust heavy in the air like ozone. 

____

“I want to hear you say it,” Aziraphale whispered. “Tell me what you want. Then you can have it.” The grip on his thigh tightened -- close-clipped nails digging into him. 

____

He _really_ didn’t want to and yet couldn’t resist letting the words spill out. Aziraphale knew all of his weak points, and exactly how hard to push them. There was a shame-pleasure that edged these sorts of things (and it could really only be counted as pleasure because it was Aziraphale there, encouraging and soft and recently _quite_ daring). 

____

“Urgh... _fine_.” Crowley tried to swallow but found that his throat was too dry. It didn’t help that his angel had eagerly settled himself back atop his crotch, eyes glimmering like he was about to be told a bedtime story. His hot breath was back, wickedly moist in the close space.

____

“I want you to eat me out, angel.” 

____

His sentence was hardly finished before Aziraphale’s tongue was working its way into the depths of his slick folds in tentative movements. Crowley gasped, hands knotting in the covers. The motions continued for a few seconds, gentle and smooth -- then came to a stop. Aziraphale popped back up again, mouth wet. 

____

“ _How_ do you want me to do that to you, dearheart?” Crowley’s look must have been venom, because he added, “It’s just -- it’s my first time with this anatomy.” 

____

He really was going to make him be descriptive as possible. Yep. Crowley rolled his eyes Heavenward, then remembered that no one liked him up there. He briefly considered rolling them Hellward, but that would probably only earn him back luck for a week. The mounting tingling in his sex _needed_ attention, and if this was the only way he'd get it, then he would lay down his dignity. Only for this angel. 

____

“I want your tongue inside me,” Crowley exhaled, almost a sigh, as Aziraphale got right back to work. Crowley’s legs went haywire at the maddening sensation, trembling and rising off of the mattress. “Rubbing up against my folds -- _mmh!_ \-- and my clit.” 

____

“I’m sorry, your _what_ ,” Aziraphale murmured directly into him. Crowley let out a snort of laughter despite the situation. "Just here. Little higher -- no -- _there_." 

____

Aziraphale’s tongue had pinpointed the bundle of swollen nerves with painful accuracy, making Crowley arch off the bed into his mouth. “ _Ohhh_ fucking hell, angel. That’s the ticket, just -- _more_.” Thankfully, his angel didn’t tease this time. With a small smirk, Aziraphale increased his work, tongue working deeper and eyes narrowing in concentration. With his hands cinched on each of Crowley’s bone-pale thighs, buried nose-deep in curls, it was almost as if he were enjoying a succulent meal. An image rose to Crowley’s mind of Aziraphale flinging him a table at one of their frequented eateries, fucking him with his mouth the way he was doing now. 

____

There wasn’t a sound in the air but Crowley’s jagged breath, the obscene sounds Aziraphale was making from the general area of his cunt, and now the slick sliding of one of his hands as he’d begun to jerk himself off clumsily. He was a _quick_ study -- within moments he’d gone from exploring the area with some hesitation to pulling and sucking on Crowley’s folds as if he’d been performing this particular sin all his life. Each long, licking _slurp_ brought Crowley a little closer to the edge of coming, made his hips buck and jolt as he chased it. The look on Aziraphale’s face was all Crowley needed to know that it wouldn’t be long for him, either -- his eyes had gone round and glassy, eyebrows drawn together in a desperate expression as he surely held back to treat Crowley first. The hand that was still holding Crowley’s thigh came to the angel’s mouth, teeth biting briefly into his thumb as he struggled not to make a sound. 

____

“Angel, I’m close -- I’m there, I’m _there, Zira -- oh fuck--!_ ” 

____

With a shuddering gasp, Crowley rode out the intensity of it, the ceiling blurring and fuzzing above him as the orgasm came in waves. Aziraphale stroked the flat plane of his stomach soothingly, tracing little hearts as Crowley himself had done earlier. 

____

When it had ended, Aziraphale made a sound like he’d been holding his breath. More than a little amused, Crowley looked down just in time to see the angel lunge for him. Their mouths met violently, foreheads knocking. Aziraphale planted himself on top of Crowley, cock rock-hard and weeping onto his chest. His mouth tasted like Crowley’s juices, and it sent another strange little quiver of arousal up his spine. Their tongues were having a kind of vicious struggle, and Crowley was righting himself against the headboard so that Aziraphale could sit in his lap, reach his own end by rubbing off on him. If he’d needed air, Crowley might have had to stop. Thank Someone that they could ignore all that rubbish in moments like these and just _have_ one another, in the most primal means possible. 

____

Aziraphale wasted no time. He rutted against Crowley in quick little thrusts, digging his nails into the demon’s shoulder blades. In only desperate seconds he was coming, spilling hot and long on Crowley’s chest. As he came down, he spread chaste little kisses all over the demon’s face -- something he almost always remembered to do. Crowley made a competition out of catching his lips, smiling through it, feeling young and silly and utterly loved. 

____

“That was…” Aziraphale began, after a moment of glowing silence, “a lot more entertaining than I’d imagined.” He frowned at the state of his shirt, and Crowley knew he was silently protesting the wrinkles that were surely forming right this very _moment_ in the fabric. 

____

“‘ _Was_?’ Oh, we’re not done, angel.” Crowley grinned up at him lazily, thighs still throbbing with post-orgasmic pleasure. “I told you to fuck me, remember?” 

____

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that _so_.” 

____

Heart pounding, Crowley nodded up at him. He’d waited _so_ long for Aziraphale’s cock in him like this, had imagined it on lonely nights centuries ago. Fucking each other the usual way was all and good, but there was something about this Effort that made him feel particularly keen to be dominated. He wondered now what had taken him so long. 

____

“Well, are you ready for me, love?” Aziraphale’s voice had gone soft and low -- any moisture that had found itself in Crowley’s throat evaporated. How could he be sexy and cute at the same time? It wasn’t _fair_. 

____

“Yeah,” Crowley answered, feeling fairly stupid. Every coherent thought had floated out of his brain. There was only the scent of them, and the anticipation of what lay ahead. 

____

“Then be a dear and spread your legs. I’m fairly certain I can figure out this portion.” Aziraphale trailed one hand leisurely back down to Crowley’s sex, dipping a finger in the slippery folds and sucking it clean. Crowley scrambled to comply, choking on an undignified little moan at the sight of being tasted so casually. 

____

It took only the tiniest of miracles (it amused both of them to imagine their Head Offices cringing over what they were now being used for) to slick Crowley’s palm. He reached for Aziraphale’s half-ready erection, eager to touch. 

____

“Why, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale practically purred. He leaned deep into the touch, unabashed. “So needy today.” His tone was conversational, as if they were sitting on some sunny square surrounded by strangers. All the while, his hips moved lazily into Crowley’s hand, fucking it until his cock strained hard and slick from the demon’s nimble fingers. 

____

_You haven’t seen me needy yet_ , Crowley wanted to say. Only his brain couldn’t seem to put the words in the right order. He flexed the hand gripped around his angel’s dick, urging it down, to the vee of his legs. 

____

“Goodness, if you insist. Inside you, then.”

____

With a sudden movement that betrayed his tone, Aziraphale grasped himself in one hand and parted Crowley’s folds with the other, sliding inside with an ease that would have been embarrassing if Crowley weren’t absolutely gagging for it. 

____

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, no longer able to keep up the casual facade. “ _Fuck_ , darling, you’re wet--” He adjusted his hips, pinning Crowley fast to the mattress. 

____

The small movement rubbed something deep in Crowley’s cunt, stoking the ebbed pleasure from his first orgasm. He _embedded_ his fingers in the flesh of his angel’s supple bottom, urging him closer. _Finally_. Crowley could have cried when Aziraphale laid into him with a steady rhythm. He matched every thrust with one of his own, not caring what Aziraphale had to say about it. 

____

In fact, with all of Aziraphale’s teasing banter from before, he didn’t have much to say at all once Crowley’s tight muscles were gripping his cock. Crowley knew this, loved it, _salivated_ for the moment when his angel finally gave up his little game and just fucked him. Not that it wasn’t fun, seeing him act bossier in the bedroom. But watching him drop it and _react_ was far more entertaining. And _Satan_ , did he react. 

____

“God in heaven, Crowley, you feel _amazing_ \--” 

____

“ _Mmmmnh_ ,” he managed to reply, shivering as Aziraphale’s cock rubbed the head of his g-spot in short teasing bursts. “Angel, please -- _oh Satan fuck yes, yes_!”

____

The second orgasm overwhelmed him beyond the point of dignity. Crowley’s toes were curling and crossing over one another. His wings appeared out of thin air, flapping weakly under him. And all the while, Aziraphale continued to fuck him, breath shallowing to desperate pants. He planted a hand in Crowley’s hair, tugging harshly, letting out an indecipherable stream of swears and endearments. Crowley sought his lover’s eyes, lost, already aware that he was careening towards another climax. In all his millennia on Earth, he’d _never_ come like this -- just one after the other, a string of pleasure that bordered right on the edge of being too much. 

____

He wanted to tell Aziraphale, but had lost the ability to do anything more than whimper. He continued to gaze up at his angel, hoping that he understood. If nothing else, the unbroken look was edging Aziraphale into hysteria just as surely as Crowley himself was. 

____

Crowley knew his angel was coming, though it didn’t feel the same inside him as it usually did. He would have known the look in his eyes anywhere (not to mention it was eerily akin to the expression he bore when sinking his teeth into the softest, most delicate pain au chocolat), the slight quaver in his voice, anywhere. He had it memorized, _ingrained_ in the depths of his squishy human brain’s pleasure center. Along with the delight of how the Bentley looked after a fresh polish and wax, the excitement of discovering new music, and glee at making someone fall for a subtle and very stupid prank, there was his angel on a loop. Touching and pink and slightly sweaty, wings fluttering, head back, saying the most _delicious_ things. The thought alone of Aziraphale in this state had sustained him for centuries. Now he could have him this way _whenever he pleased_. He tried not to let it go to his head. 

____

Though when Aziraphale collapsed atop him with a shivery sigh, murmuring pet names into his neck, it was hard not to be a little smug. 

____

“Have fun?” He purred, tangling his hand in those impossible blond curls. 

____

“ _Fun_ doesn’t cover it. Good Lord, Crowley, you were holding out on me!” Aziraphale laughed weakly. “That thing’s some kind of...of superweapon.”

____

“I’ll just keep that in mind, then.” 

____

Crowley wriggled until he was released from his (admittedly very warm and snuggly) trap. They lay nose to nose in the covers, smirking at one another like guilty schoolboys. Crowley loved these moments; all the new jokes, the naughty looks mingled with love. He’d never felt more human, real, _something_. Worth being. Even when he’d been an angel, there was nothing like this. 

____

A week from that evening, their offer on the South Downs would be enthusiastically accepted. Would it be the result of a miracle? If Aziraphale was asking, definitely not, nor would Crowley assume the angel would break his own rule about “cheating” to obtain a property of their own. Perhaps, though, each had had their own hand in the matter. That didn’t matter. What mattered was packing things frantically into all manner of boxes, plants delicately finagled into the Bentley, and _dozens_ upon dozens of trips back and forth to fetch all of the books. It mattered that Aziraphale’s lip did that wobbly thing when he was trying not to cry, seeing their boxes sitting in the rooms of the cottage, and Crowley kissing him on the top of the head so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see his own stupid lip wobbling. 

____

Perhaps what mattered most of all was the ring in Crowley’s jacket pocket, miracled so that he couldn’t remove it unless he actively chose to -- could _not_ risk losing that fucking thing -- and now all he had to do was pick a moment and make Aziraphale his, forever. He absolutely couldn’t wait.

____


End file.
